


The Lines between Us

by Luckyshiori



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Character Development, Crime Organizations, Dubious Consent Situations, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Misogynistic Slurs, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Physical Torture, Profanity, Psychological Torture, Sexual and Romantic Situations, Slow(er) Build, Violence, mention of rape, multi-chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luckyshiori/pseuds/Luckyshiori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waylon Park has always played it safe, aiming for a peaceful existence, yet quietly yearning for something greater. When an opportunity too good to be true presents itself, he blindly takes it, and in turn, places his trust in all the wrong things. Sometimes, the most wicked things come in deceptively charming packages. </p><p>*Not being updated/worked on at the moment*</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lines between Us

**Author's Note:**

> To start off, this story was originally inspired by an awesome Mafia AU short comic by the amazing ajelo-drawsis on tumblr! This work (although not exactly a standard Mafia AU) is loosely based off of it, if you'd like to see the comic, just ask me for the link! Secondly, if Waylon seems like a pushover/a bit timid in this chapter, it's because he hasn't really gone through any traumatizing life altering experiences. _Yet ;)_. Lastly, I know everyone has a lot of diverse opinions on what Miles and Waylon's appearance is like, but thanks to the spectacular fan art in this fandom, I can't visualize Waylon as anything but a dark/dirty blond haired nerd with glasses and Miles as anything but dark eyes, dark hair, darker tanned skin, you get the picture. I'm entirely putting the blame on you people for these interpretations. Thanks for the creative images! 
> 
> **Overall Warnings:** Although this chapter is quite docile, expect _eventual_ graphic depictions of violence, profanity, sexual and romantic situations, a few dubious consent situations (in which consent is unclear), mention of rape (non graphic), drug usage, gore, psychological and physical torture, character death, minor original characters, overly descriptive writing (sorry not sorry, but actually, I'm sorry), grammar, spelling, and punctuation mistakes, overuse and abuse of commas, (parenthesis), _italics_ , and just a dash of dark and explicit content here and there for my little sadist heart. Let's get this party started. ʘ‿ʘ 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I'm afraid to say that I do not own Outlast, that right belongs to Red Barrels. I just love to write about the fascinating characters, settings, and storyline of this deliciously frightening game.

Prologue

Thinking back on it now, he should have known better.

Even as a kid, Waylon Park always made it a habit to stay out of trouble. It wasn't necessarily an easy task, given his natural interest in things that, generally, had nothing to do with him, but he thought he managed to squash that inner nosy nature down just fine. He avoided strange people like the plague, immediately walked the other way when he deemed a situation to have even the slightest potential to be dangerous, kept his head down like it was born that way, and shuffled along through life at his own (safe) pace. Honestly, he was just an ordinary guy. He achieved the good old American trifecta of a good family, good college, good job, to a T, white picket fence and all. He was entirely common, completely and utterly _normal._ It was a boring life, but a secure one, and he wondered how, with his overly cautious personality and play it safe approach to life, just how exactly had he gotten himself involved in the mess he was currently in.

Perhaps that was the problem, maybe it was his discretion that caused all this in the first place. He had spent his whole life focusing solely on staying out of harms way that when he inadvertently placed himself in the danger zone, it hadn't even dawned on him and he foolishly thought he was safe, like everything was fine and dandy, like it had always been before.

Either way, the how's and why's didn't matter anymore. He was _fucked._

He should have known that it was all too good to be true, with the fact that such an elite company had taken the time and initiative to research his credentials and contact him first (when does something like that _ever_ happen?), with the mountain of non disclosure agreements he had to physically and verbally agree to, with how the company had _strongly_ advised him to limit his socialization/contact with friends, family, and really anyone who had the possibility of interfering with his work to just a couple short phone calls and visits a week, if that. Hell, how he had not realized how unwise it was getting involved with a company that was as large scale and increasingly suspicious as Murkoff was _beyond_ him.  
  
Waylon, until recently, thought he was smarter than that.

He should have known the company was bad news the _instant_ he witnessed Jeremy Blaire's pleased smile nearing the end of his interview that day, looking ever so much like a cat that just finished eating a canary. The authoritative man surveyed over the entire process like a king atop his throne, watching with arrogant eyes as he was extensively questioned (interrogated) by multiple other Murkoff staff. He hadn't trusted that smile for a second, and it wasn't just the man's smirk that unnerved him but his dictatorial, over bearing personality that had left Waylon with an unsettling feeling in his gut long after the interview was over, like bile stirring around in his stomach, waiting for the right moment to purge itself.

But Murkoff's offered salary was not only convincing enough to dismiss any of his previous doubts and misgivings, it was all too enticing to him, and Waylon would be lying if he said he wasn't tempted at the prospect of a fat wallet and a steady paycheck. It wasn't like he was finding much (or any) work as a freelance software engineer, and after being out of a job for a little over six months, he gravely needed the funds.

His first mistake, he realized, was being blinded by the money.

Things all started going downhill after he proposed to Lisa one day on an impulse, seeking to deepen their bond and add a spark back into to their somewhat dreary lives. She very happily agreed, and he remembered being so overjoyed that he almost cried, his heart brimming with happiness. The euphoric period in his life ended there though, because in that same week, he was let go from his tech job, the reason being his "unsatisfactory work ethic", an accusation that baffled him considering he had always shown up on time, had good relations with both his boss and coworkers, and regularly completed his work quickly and diligently. It was just icing on the cake when not even a month after that, an unusual accident in which a water valve exploded in his living complex and effectively flooded and destroyed what was left of his already shabby apartment, and things truly went to shit.

Lisa, the poor thing, she tried to her best to help him through his break down by inviting him to live with her, but ultimately, after dealing with months upon months of his self deprecation, she finally gave him what he genuinely needed: tough love. She called the engagement off, stating with a tone of guilt in her voice, that while she loved him dearly, she couldn't sit by and watch him drink himself to death, in her own household, no less. She told Waylon, with the teary green eyes that always made his heart flutter, that she needed some time to think things over and firmly asked him to leave her condo because he needed to "stop making her couch smell like cheap whiskey and get his shit together" and that was the end of it.

Waylon tried his best to understand, to make sense of it all, to plaster on an "everything's fine" smile and _move on_ , but on the inside, he was devastated. Not because he had lost his apartment, his job, not because of Lisa's well deserved decision, but because the only person he could blame for the tragic turn of events was himself. How could he let himself slip so far away from reality and lose the one person in his life that had cheered him on, encouraged his endeavors, loved him unconditionally? The weight of his mistake was too much, it was too heavy a burden for him to bear, and he simply couldn't face the truth that he had been the cause for all it. So he didn't.

It was like a domino effect, one terrible event leading to the next, all of his life achievements he'd worked so hard for crumbling into dust and slipping through his fingertips in a matter of months.

He was having his midlife crisis at twenty-eight years old, and at that embarrassing realization, Waylon knew he needed to make a change. He got the call from Murkoff a few days after his split with Lisa, and oddly enough, it could have not come at a more opportune time. He thought nothing of it then, only thinking how incredibly lucky he was at having such a golden chance fall into his lap _right_ when he needed it the most.

Oh, if only he had known.

Waylon had wanted something fresh, something far away, something different. A new beginning, a place he could start over, become someone better, maybe even try living a fulfilled life for a change. But mostly, if he was truly being honest with himself, mostly, it was just to get away from it all.

He understood it was cowardly, dropping everything he knew and running away, escaping from problems that not even the feeling of distilled liquor burning down his throat and scorching deep into his belly could comfort anymore. But he saw it as a chance to prove himself, to regain his dignity, and in his desperate need for redemption, he took the offer, no questions asked.

"Don't for it for me," Lisa said upon learning of the good news, "Do it for yourself,"

So Waylon did, and he left. He ran away to Washington, to Seattle. He thought that Murkoff, a well paying, shiny, new opportunity was the answer to all of his problems.

He was foolish. A fucking _idiot_ , really. He made the most gravest mistakes of all, he'd been too naive, too curious, too trusting of his new, unfamiliar environment and all of the people in it.

And now, he was going to die for it.

Chapter One

_One Month Earlier_

Waylon hurriedly drummed his fingers across the keyboard, tapping away at the company owned laptop like his life depended on it. He'd been working on this program for four months now, refusing to let himself slack off since the moment he started it, and despite his best efforts, he _still_ wasn't finished. The program was supposed to be implemented in the company systems by tomorrow morning and he still needed to finish the last sets of code, fine tune the entire thing, and test it multiple times for problems before it could be considered satisfactory.

He would be pulling an all nighter tonight. _Again._

The dirty blond hummed tiredly as he completed yet another line of complex code, reaching for his untouched cup of coffee, eyes never once leaving the screen. He brought the porcelain cup to his lips, willing the bitter taste of the black liquid to wake up his worn out brain. He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the temperature. _Ugh,_ cold coffee was the enemy.

Waylon raised his eyebrows as a steaming cup was placed on his table, delicate fingers sliding it to his hand, "You look like you could use a fresh cup, hun," He was greeted by a warm smile and a pair of familiar hazel eyes, "You've already been at it for three hours now, don't you think you should take a break?"

He would have laughed at the comment if he wasn't so drained, the word break was not in his vocabulary, not since he started working for Murkoff.

Waylon returned her smile with a meager one of his own, "Thanks for the concern Anna, but I'm almost done," He lied easily, taking a sip of the new cup and enjoying the warmth of the coffee as it slid down his throat.

Anna let out a small laugh at his words, "That's what you always say, and yet, here you are," She gave him a knowing look, "Is there anything else I can get you?" The waitress questioned him sweetly, tilting her head to the side as she tucked a loose strand of brunette hair behind her ear.

"Actually," He stopped his typing and looked up at her, "Can I get a—"

"Cinnamon coffee cake?" She chimed in helpfully, and upon seeing Waylon's disgruntled nod, she shook her head in amusement, "How did I know? We have a warm one that's almost finished baking in the back, I'll bring it right out," She bounced on her heel and took the half drank cup with her, disappearing behind the front counter and into a door that lead to the kitchen, he presumed.

Waylon groaned lowly, placing the pads of his fingertips behind his glasses and over his sore eyelids, rubbing them in a circular motion, feeling like his eyeballs were going to fall straight out of his skull if he didn't nurture them. He really did come here way too often, so much that most of the staff here knew him by name, and he them. It was a hole in the wall coffee shop/café called the Burrow, it's dim lighting and quiet atmosphere a perfect haven for him to spend his evenings finishing up his work, if he didn't manage to complete it at the office. More often than not, that was the case, and he usually spent most of the hours that he wasn't busy working there here, typing away at the projects he was permitted to work on outside the company building.

It was a better alternative than getting work done at his new apartment, that Waylon knew for certain. The layout of it had an uncanny resemblance to Lisa's condo, and for that reason alone it made it difficult for him to focus on his work there without old memories rearing their ugly heads and distracting him.

The blond had made a point to move, but by the time he got the chance to consider it, he was already up to his ears in programs, reports, and codes, codes, codes. He just didn't have the time to spare, and at the moment, a time consuming process like moving was simply out of the question.

He'd been in Seattle for a total of five and a half months now, and he was adjusting to the chilly metropolis quite well, if he said so himself. Sure, he wasn't completely used to the big city and its gloomy, overcast days yet, and yeah, he was more exhausted than he'd ever been in his adult life, but he was working again, and working, especially working for a company like Murkoff, meant keeping busy.

Keeping busy meant focusing on things other than how much of a disappointment he had been to Lisa, how much he had let her down with his deplorable behavior, how he would have done anything to make things righ—

Waylon ceased his typing again, frowning. He sighed deeply, and lightly scratched at his head, as if the action would somehow chase away the depressing thoughts. Man, he _really_ needed to move soon.

Glancing around the small coffee shop, he noted that it was getting increasingly more crowded by the minute, which was unusual for the store, even for a Friday evening. He hadn't even noticed, being so engrossed in his coding, but there were servers (both waitresses and waiters) running about the cozy café taking orders from their assigned tables, and many others bringing out various drinks and dishes to their customers, all clearly in a frenzy from the rush of incoming people.

Amidst the sounds of plates and silverware clinking together and the low hum of the conversations of guests filling the air, Waylon could make out soft indie music being played throughout the building from speakers mounted up high on the mahogany walls. The sweet aroma in the air smelt of ground coffee and warm cuisine being cooked, causing him to lean back in his chair comfortably and breathe the calming scent in. He was actually surprised to see the store this busy, as most people in the city judged the chipping, crumbling brick on the shops faded exterior and didn't give the place a second thought. The inside was an entirely different setting from the outside, though, and while the interior design of the café was a bit old fashioned, its ambiance was incredibly relaxing and welcoming. It had a certain charm to it that not a lot of people could appreciate at first glance, but that was one of reasons why Waylon liked it so much to begin with.

The telltale ringing of a bell broke him out of his inner musings, signaling that yet another customer had come to join the fray. The blond casually peered towards the wooden double door entrance, his curious disposition getting the better of him.

_Whoa._

That was the first word to pop into Waylon's head upon seeing the new arrival. The man was tall, no, he was freakin' _huge._ He had to be at least 6'3-6'4, and that was a modest estimate on his part considering the guy was almost as tall as the doorframe he had just walked through. He was clothed in a pristine white dress shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up, finely tailored beige business slacks, a fitted black vest with a matching bow tie that hung loosely around his neck, sable colored oxford shoes, and a pair of short onyx gloves idly holding onto an expensive looking leather jacket. He looked like he had strutted right out of a 1950's male fashion ad, making Waylon feel remarkably underdressed in his simple yellow plaid shirt, blue jeans, and dark sneakers.

Despite his elegant attire, the most shocking aspect of his appearance was the man's face. Horrible, blotchy, crimson scarring dotted the right side, a grim contrast against his pale skin. The scarring started from the very tip of his dark hairline, marring straight through his eyebrow and cobalt eye, past his defined cheek bone and thick jawline, along the man's neck and disappearing into the skin hidden beneath his ivory shirt.

He took long strides into the building, looking entirely out of place in the tiny, laid back café. Apparently, with the way several other customers were casting wary glances at him as he passed by them, Waylon wasn't the only one who thought so.

Realizing he was staring _very_ obviously, he was just about to tear his eyes away when the man's attention abruptly settled on him, as if he could sense Waylon's interest from across the room. He sucked in a sharp breath, caught in the act red handed.

_Shit! Don't stare, don't stare!_

To say his gaze was intimidating would be an understatement. The man was a damn maimed juggernaut, sharp blue eyes meeting his soft brown ones and then wandering along the length of his disheveled appearance. The searching inspection had Waylon rooted in place, he couldn't manage to look away when suddenly—

"Waylon! Whoa, calm down, didn't mean to scare you," Anna seemingly popped out of nowhere as she blocked his view, eyeing him in surprise as he all but jolted five feet in the air, "So sorry for the wait, we're getting totally slammed right now, can you believe it? I've never seen so many people in the store before. I guess there's some kind of huge charity event going on a couple blocks down," She rambled on hastily, delivering his order onto the circular table as she chatted.

"Need anything else?" She asked pleasantly, albeit a bit impatiently, placing her hand on her hip and tapping her foot against the floor, most likely in anxiety from the amount of people that were waiting on her to serve them.

"No," He said weakly, "I'm good, thanks,"

"Enjoy, then. Good luck with your work," She responded with a grin, hustling over to another table to attend to her other guests.

Waylon let out an uneasy breath, mentally thanking Anna for her impeccable timing. The last thing he needed was a disfeatured overgrown beef cake in an outdated mafia suit to come up to him and start a fight because Waylon had an apparent staring problem. He didn't dare look up again to see where the man had chosen to sit down for fear that it would be an invitation to invoke trouble that he wanted _nothing_ to do with. Waylon was good at handling a lot of things in life, confrontations with scary looking people not being one of them. Plus, it was rude to gawk at someone the way he had been doing. He didn't know what came over him, it was out of character for the software engineer, as he routinely minded his own business like it was a full time job.

Deciding to shrug it off, Waylon dragged the plate of warm cake over to himself, accidentally sending one of his many notes scattered across the table flying to the floor in the process. He huffed in annoyance as it fluttered farther from his working space than he would have liked, meaning he would have to get out of his seat and go retrieve it. He was about to do just that when he noticed (with a great deal of alarm) that the man he had been not so subtly observing earlier was making a beeline for his table in the back, intently staring at him and walking over with purpose.

He stiffened up in his chair, lips tensing into a worried line. _Uh oh._

"Excuse me," A deep, yet polite baritone voice flooded his ears as the man leaned over and picked up the fallen piece of paper off the ground, "I believe you dropped this,"

He held the offending paper out in front of him, Waylon staring at it dumbly for a few seconds before hesitantly reaching out and taking it with a muted, "Thanks,"

"Pardon my interruption, but as I'm sure you may have noticed, this quaint little shop is rather bustling at the moment," He gestured to the occupied dinner tables around them with a gloved hand, "Taking into account the lack of available seating and that you are, in fact, using two combined tables for what I presume to be your work, would it be too much of a bother if I used the other one?" He spoke so cordially Waylon almost thought he was joking, but one look from the man and he could tell that he was being absolutely serious.

Then what the man said dawned on him.

A table. That's what he wanted, a table, a place to sit. Waylon would have smacked his own forehead for being such an asshole, prejudging the guy by his appearance and assuming the worst, but it would probably make him look even more strange than he initially thought the other man looked.

"Of course!" He rushed the words out all too quickly, promptly getting up to clear the surface of the other table of his supplies. He found he often needed to combine two tables together to make room for his notes, laptop, and ordered food and drink, as the tables in the café were round petite things that didn't have much space. It was never a problem before today because the shop almost never had this amount of traffic, and it didn't even occur to him that he probably should have let someone else use it. The guy probably thought that Waylon was terribly inconsiderate.

"There you go, it's all yours," He spoke again when he was finished cleaning up.

Waylon sat back down and nodded to the adjacent metal table across from him for good measure, but to his dismay, the other male did not take the table and move it to its original position a couple feet away like he had expected him to. The man stood rigidly in place, blue eyes undeniably questioning.

"May I sit?"

_Oh no, he wants to sit WITH me? Why. Absolutely not. Say no. Say no. Say no._

"Uh, sure," Waylon forced a smile to his face, eyes crinkling awkwardly from the action, "Sure," He repeated, wanting very much to shove his foot in his mouth and roll out the front door of the café.

"I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience," The man added, appearing slightly apologetic as he sat down opposite from Waylon, looking towering even as he was sitting, the miniature table doing nothing to diminish his height.

"Oh, where are my manners? I haven't introduced myself yet, have I? My name is Eddie Gluskin," An attractive smile formed on the man's lips as he stuck his hand out in an indication of a handshake.

"Waylon Park," The blond offered his own hand, silently resigning to his fate. As they shook, Waylon could feel how large the other man's hands were in comparison to his own, and that was saying a lot considering he was not a small male by any standard of the word. He thought of himself as pretty well off on the height spectrum, but compared to this guy, anyone would feel dwarfed.

"Waylon Park," The man, now identified as Eddie, rolled the name off his tongue, testing it, "Interesting name,"

"...I guess so," Waylon mumbled, unsure of what to say. He wasn't good with people, he was good with machines. Codes, numbers, computers, they all made sense, they were all logical, they could be predicted and handled accordingly, the main reason why he liked being a tech specialist so much. They didn't kick people off their couches for drinking their sorrows away or force their unwanted company on people they didn't know in the form of civil conversation, even as courteous as it was.

Dammit, he really was too pitiful for words.

Eddie, unperturbed by his lack of socializing skills, continued on, "Do you usually enjoy sweets so early in the evening?"

"Not... _all_ the time, but they uh, the sugar in them gives me the energy I need to keep going, and all that," Waylon replied, a feeble excuse for a grown man his age to be being enjoying a coffee cake at this hour, but an excuse none the less.

If Eddie was amused with the defensive tone of his response, he hid it well, simply masking it with another question.

"I see, well in that case, what would you recommend? I'm afraid I'm a newcomer here, so I don't know what is considered good and what is not,"

Waylon was relieved their conversation was shifting into territory that was relatively easy for him to talk about, because if there was one thing he knew inside and out, it was the menu at The Burrow.

"Well, it all depends on your tastes, but if we're talking about sweets, then the cinnamon coffee cake is my favorite, it's pretty delicious. Their pumpkin pie is good, too. They also have chocolate cream bonbons, salted caramel brownies, and if you like fruity things, the lemon tarts here aren't half bad..." He trailed off, trying to think of more options off the top of his head. He was about to mentioned the popular coconut truffles the shop had, but upon seeing the positively mirthful look on Eddie's face, he zipped his mouth shut.

"What?" He questioned, slightly abashed.

"And here you told me that you did not enjoy sweets often. Are you sure that's the truth, Waylon?"

The playful way the other man said his name made it clear that he was undoubtedly entertained. He didn't know what kind of guy would openly tease someone they had just met about their choices in food, except for maybe Miles, but he supposed that there was a first time for everything.

"Chicken sandwiches!" He raised his voice a bit too loudly and was met with a raised brow, "The, uh, chicken sandwiches here are good too," Swiftly diverting his view to his neglected coffee cake, Waylon took a generous bite, chewing through his embarrassment.

"You seem to know quite a lot about the food here," The black haired male pondered outloud, plucking a menu from its rack perched in the middle of his table, riffling through it with a neutral expression.

"Do you come here often?" He added as an afterthought, flipping through the pages slowly, contemplating his choices.

Of all the people he had to share his limited space with, it had to be a Chatty Cathy with an endless amount of questions. Waylon resisted the urge to sigh, glancing at the incomplete program on his laptop screen with contempt.

It would be an all nighter tonight indeed, but at least the guy wasn't trying to pick a fight with him like he had originally thought, and he was friendly enough, so Waylon couldn't complain.

"I do, I like this place a lot. Despite how many people are here today, it's never this crowded on a regular basis. It's generally very peaceful, so I usually spend time here after work to... _work_ ," He admitted honestly, focusing on gathering up his notes, tidily stacking them together, and starting the process of putting them away in his company folder. It's not like he was going to be getting anything else done here today, not anymore.

Truthfully, he had completed most of the core of the program, and with a little luck, he wouldn't run into any problems with it at home, so he could justify listening to Anna's earlier suggestion of taking a much needed break.

"That sounds rather demanding, don't you think? What kind of company requires you to work a full shift in _addition_ to working off of the clock as well? I do hope you are at least getting extra pay for your efforts," Eddie delicately set the menu down as he spoke, resting his elbows on the edge of the table and lacing his fingers together, regarding Waylon with a careful, yet watchful glance as the younger man placed the documents securely in his folder, distracted.

At that, Waylon laughed, he genuinely laughed. Maybe it was from his lack of sleep or the hilarious notion that Murkoff would pay someone off the clock for doing extra work, but he couldn't contain himself.

"I'm a software engineer, it's a part of my job," Waylon said after finally ridding himself of his chuckles. He took another bite of his food, savoring the taste of the moist treat on his tongue before directing his attention over to his uninvited dinner guest.

He almost choked on the mouthful of cake as he swallowed it when he saw the way Eddie was watching him so, so, attentively, chin placed on top of his gloved hands, an inexplicable sentiment (fondness, no, it couldn't be that, elation, maybe?) in his eyes.

"Laughing suits you much more than frowning, darling,"

_He did not—did he just call me darling?_

"T-thanks?" Waylon stuttered out, eyeballing the taller man with incredulity, truly at a loss of how to respond to such a statement. All of a sudden, the keyboard on his laptop became the most incredibly fascinating thing he had ever seen in his twenty-eight years of living.

A nagging thought was born at the back of his mind, insistent on being answered. Still peering fixedly at the S key on his keyboard, he asked, "When was I frowning?"

There was a stretched pause, as if Eddie was thinking, "When I was walking over to you, I noticed that you seemed...upset. Like something was troubling you," He replied easily enough, though there was a calculated undertone to his voice that the software engineer could not identify the meaning of.

_That's because a guy that could break me in half with one arm caught me staring at him and started walking over like he was going to do something about it._

"Oh. It was nothing...important," Waylon replied, overly casual, as he slid his forefinger in light circles back and forth across the spacebar in a need to fiddle with something using his hands, a nervous habit.

Anna, precious Anna with her precious timing, chose that moment to reappear again, looking evidently less stressed than she had before, and Waylon hoped he didn't look too relieved by her presence.

"Waylon, you made a friend. I'm so happy for you," The brunette teased, elbowing him playfully, "Good job," She giggled, attempting (and failing miserably) at hiding her laughter behind a small hand.

"Believe it or not, Anna, I do have friends," Waylon scowled, half mocking, half serious.

"Ha! Now _that_ is a joke if I've ever heard one. All this guy does is work, drink coffee, and work some more. He's here almost every day of the week," She gushed to the pair, sounding exasperated, "He seriously needs to make new friends, get a hobby, or do _something_. It drives me nuts just looking at him! You'll be his friend, won't you?" She directed the comment at Eddie, hazel eyes imploring.

"Why, certainly," Eddie said good naturedly, visibly brightening at the idea, like he desired nothing more in life than a friendship with the man sitting across from him.

Never had Waylon felt the urge to smack the nonsensical woman so strongly.

She beamed at his response, took Eddie's order of a cinnamon coffee cake on Waylon's recommendation, and promised to be back soon.

"What a charismatic young woman," The black haired male remarked conversationally, gaze following Anna as she made her way back into the kitchen.

"She is, isn't she? She was one of the first people I met when I moved here, and she hasn't changed at all since the day I met her," Waylon expressed, seemingly lost in thought at the memory of the first time he visited the shop.

"So you are not native to Seattle, then," Eddie inquired, giving thanks to the brunette waitress when she brought out his order, "Thank you, dear. It smells divine,"

Anna, always so affable, paid the term of endearment no mind, and grinned ear to ear, the exact opposite of his flustered reaction. Waylon guessed that the man most likely used nicknames on everyone, and he relaxed, even if only slightly. Perhaps he had over reacted earlier?

"No, I'm actually from—"

He was interrupted by a ringing tone coming from his pocket, signaling that he had received a text message. He was going to ignore it, but he remembered that he was supposed to be meeting up with Miles later in the evening and he looked down, torn by not wanting to appear impolite. Lord knows it drove him crazy when Lisa would sometimes have her phone out at the dinner table when they were on dates, but when he realized that he was comparing this situation to a _date_ (because it most certainly was not), his forehead creased and he wanted to grimace.

"While I do appreciate your proper table manners, I would not mind in the slightest if you needed to answer that, you know," Eddie examined his food judgmentally, without sparing Waylon a glance.

Damn, he hadn't even said a word. This guy was oddly perceptive.

He rustled around in his pant pocket and pulled out his cellphone, suddenly becoming aware at how dark it was outside from the lack of sunshine creeping in through the store windows. As to how much time had passed during their little meeting, Waylon had no idea. He checked his phone and saw that the text message was from Miles, asking him where the hell he was.

Waylon sighed.

"I really should be going now," He began packing his laptop and folder into his over the shoulder bag and tossed the cost of his orders on the table, already knowing the prices by heart.

"Leaving so soon?" Eddie asked nonchalantly, taking a small bite off his plate, sampling it. He hummed pleasingly, apparently satisfied with the taste.

"Yeah, I promised a friend I'd meet with him tonight, and I lost track of the time," Waylon admitted sheepishly, rising to his feet and wondering why he felt the need to apologize for leaving. The very thought was absurd, and as he had just met the man, he didn't owe him anything, much less an apology for excusing himself.

"Well, then. I won't monopolize any more of your time than I already have. It was a pleasure meeting you, Waylon Park," Eddie expertly twirled the fork he was using in between his fingers, staring off into space like he had become altogether disinterested in the situation, in their meeting, in him.

"It was nice to meet you as well," Waylon threw over his shoulder, slightly baffled by the man's precipitous shift in attitude. For someone who had been so interested in him earlier, he seemed rather dispassionate about him now.

He only managed to take one step away from the table before he felt a warm pressure at his wrist, firm, yet gentle as it tugged him back in one smooth, fluid motion. He looked behind him, thinking maybe he had forgotten something and Eddie was trying to catch him before he left without it.

The older man's hold on him lingered a few seconds too long, enough to make Waylon more than a little uncomfortable, but Eddie seemed to quickly take note of this because as fleeting as it had come, his wrist was promptly released, and the touch was gone, as if he had never felt it in the first place. The blond peered at Eddie, perplexed. When the other man simply stared at him and said nothing, Waylon shifted his balance clumsily from side to side, clinging to the thick strap of his bag, the silence making him anxious.

"You should take care on your way home, Waylon. It's dark out tonight," He finally spoke after a few deliberate moments, the same intent look flickering in his eyes that he had earlier when he was first making his way towards the back of the café and over to Waylon's table.

"Right. I will," Waylon nodded, "You too," He added quietly before walking to the entrance, opening it, and leaving, unaware of the eyes watching his back the entire way to the door.

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"Miles, I'm _telling you,_ it was one of the weirdest social exchanges I've ever had in my _life_ ,"

"You wanna know how I know that you need to get out more? Because you call talking with another person a _social exchange_. Really Park? Are we in a Sociology 101 class?"

Waylon shot a glare at the brunet man sitting on the bench next to him, though it was fairly halfhearted. Having known him for almost half a year, the software engineer was significantly used to Miles' derisive way of speaking by now.

"Okay, Upshur. All I'm trying to say is that it was, I don't know, _different._ I guess I'm just not used to people who are like that. I mean, when he called me... _darling_ , it completely caught me off guard, you know? How many people do you know that just tack a pet name on someone they've just met? Especially one as personal as _that_ ," Waylon fired back, using his hands for emphasis as he ranted on.

"Hm," Miles hummed thoughtfully, examining the stub of what was left of his missing index finger, an action he did quite often when he was pondering over something, "You'd be surprised,"

At Waylon's look of skepticism, Miles shook his head slowly and stuffed his maimed hands in the pockets of his brown leather jacket, glancing up at the dark sky above them, expression unreadable.

"It sounds to me like when he caught you staring, he liked what he saw. He didn't have to sit with you, but he did. He could've ordered his food at the front counter, gotten it to go, but he didn't, did he? Or has it been so long since you've last been in the dating scene that you can't even recognize when you're being hit on?" Miles offered him a shit eating grin and Waylon glowered, only causing it to grow wider.

"He wasn't—he was not _hitting_ on me. Besides, even if you happened to be right and he was hitting on me, _which he wasn't_ , it still wouldn't matter, you already know that I don't date," Waylon replied, miffed, as Miles gave him a doubtful look, "He was probably just looking for a place to sit, that's all it was," He mumbled softly, slouching against the bench and crossing his arms over his chest, thinking about the event that had transpired earlier.

"Probably wants to sit on your face," The brunet deadpanned, smirking upon seeing the disturbed look on his friend's face.

Miles chuckled, "Too easy, Waylon, too easy,"

" _Ugh_ , stop talking,"

"Either way, you made me wait twenty extra minutes for your sorry ass, so I'd say that you, my kind friend, owe me a free dinner," Miles looked over at the blond purposefully as he nodded his chin, physically agreeing with his own statement.

"Are you trying to manipulate me into buying you food by guilt tripping me?" Waylon accused as he narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

"What a horrible way of wording it. I, personally, like to call it emotional _persuasion_ ," Miles innocently placed his hand over his chest, looking thoroughly offended at such an allegation.

Waylon gave him a pointed look, "Yeah, okay,"

"Honestly, I forgot my wallet at home," Miles admitted, voice surprisingly genuine.

"Liar,"

"No seriously, I did," The brunet emptied out his pockets as evidence of his words, pulling out only a pack of Marlboro Reds, a lighter, and some stringy pocket lint, "I was in a rush get to a charity event today, so I only had time to grab my Nikon. Had to get good shots of the politician running it. It's pretty big news at the moment, I'm sure you've heard of the guy I'm talking about," 

Waylon gave his signature "I don't know" shrug and Miles sighed, unsurprised.

"This middle aged fucker apparently raped one of his own nieces years back and the kid finally came forward to the public about it a couple days ago. She had concrete evidence of the abuse to back up her claims, pictures of the events, audio recordings, even fucking videos filming it all. It's a huge damn scandal going on right now, so naturally, I'm all over it," Miles recited the details in a bored tone, as if he was making an offhand comment about how nice the weather was today, not unruffled in the slightest about the disturbing content he had just disclosed.

He was always the more desensitized one out of the two of them when it came to unpleasant topics such as these, but Waylon supposed that was the main reason why Miles was so good at his job.

"Journalism is an interesting field to be in, huh?" Waylon responded, sounding dubious to even his own ears, as he was unsure if interesting was the correct word to describe an exposing and eye opening career such as investigative journalism.

Miles snorted, "If you like sniffing around in the underbelly of society and viewing human beings in their entirety as nothing more than money hungry, seedy cockroaches looking for the next financial structure to invade, strip of its profits, and then burn to the ground, then yeah, it's interesting all right,"

Waylon whistled lowly, "Now that is a pessimistic outlook if I've ever heard one. _Wait,_ " A thought struck him, "You think I'm a cockroach?" He challenged, mockingly offended, watching Miles as he fiddled with the lid of his cigarette box, popping it open with his thumb, closing it, and then popping it open again. 

"It's called realism, Waylon. We're all essentially cockroaches, and the world is just a giant fucking kitchen, natural resources are the cookies in the jar, the steaks marinating in the fridge. We infest it all, consume it all, then shit it all out, with the wealthy cockroaches sparing their droppings to the less fortunate cockroaches in the name of self serving "charity". The end game of this, the final product of it, is all those high quality cookies and steaks being distributed between the top dogs, the elite, political insects. And when all is said and done and this process has been exhausted and has reached the end of its course, we start the whole damn thing over again. Boom, rinse and repeat. Welcome to first world America, " The darker skinned male retorted, impassive, as he light up a cigarette between his thumb and middle finger.

Waylon clutched at the chilled railing of the bench, lightly frowning.

The brunet sometimes acted like this in their moments alone, pragmatic, adverse, and with eyes distant and unreachable. Waylon never knew how to respond when he got into these moods, but he valued the thought provoking topics that were brought up in their conversations none the less. His inner curiosity was fascinated with how and where the other man had derived such ideas from, much like his itching desire to know how exactly he had lost his two missing fingers, but he hadn't worked up the nerve to ask him about it yet.

The journalist took a long drag from the cancer stick, savoring it blissfully, before breathing the fumes out into the cold night air, the wispy tendrils of smoke dissipating into the darkness surrounding them. He reclined lazily onto the faded metal of the park bench, crossing his arms behind the back of his head, cigarette perched between tanned lips. He watched Waylon out of the corner of his eye as the blond gazed up into the expanse of the ebony sky, taking notice of the perturbed expression on the other man's face.

Miles cleared his throat, "You know, if it makes you feel any better, if you happened to be one of the cockroaches I found in my kitchen, I'd put you in a jar, kill all the rest, and then save you for last, since I'm such a wonderful friend and all,"

Waylon laughed at that, "That's a comforting thought to know. Remind me to never step foot in your kitchen again so that I don't have to suffer a premature death at the hands of my own friend suffocating me using a can of aerosol bug spray,"

Miles' mouth tweaked upwards in amusement, and he took another drag of his cigarette, observing the sliver of skin exposed on Waylon's lower abdomen as he stretched his arms high in the air, letting out a tired yawn.

He jumped up in alarm when the brunet jabbed him none too gently into the naked skin of his hipbone, "Lookin' skinnier these days man. I don't remember you being this thin when we first met, you had this pudgy little geek look going for you. It was kind of cute, actually, " Miles teased and was met with a dirty look, "You are _actually_ eating, right? Energy drinks and TV dinners don't cut it, Waylon," Miles lectured, peering keenly at the blond in a mistrustful manner.

Waylon was going to respond that yes, he was eating his meals perfectly fine _thank you very much_ , but all it took was one narrowed glance from Miles' suspicious eyes (a look he despised because it was hard to get a lie past) and the software engineer scowled, shifting his eyes away, "Don't be ridiculous,"

"Don't be ridiculous," Miles mimicked his words, high pitched and comical, "Don't be ridiculous in your language is code for "I'm being fucking dishonest and I use this poorly constructed choice of words to cover up my shitty ass lies,"

Waylon glared daggers at the man but kept his mouth shut tight in silence, which meant, as usual, Miles had hit the mark right on the bulls eye.

The brunet rolled his eyes, annoyed.

"How do you even manage that when you stop by that café you're so fond of every single day? It doesn't occur to you to order anything at least slightly nutritional?"

Remembering Eddie's earlier teasing of him for ordering sweets, and knowing Miles would make fun of him ten times more than the scarred man had, Waylon decided to forego mentioning what he ordered today to save himself from his friend's harassment.

"I order sandwiches, omelets, and sometimes pie," He stated carefully, and upon seeing Miles' mocking simper, he quickly realized his mistake and swiftly added, "But only sometimes!"

"Pie isn't all that nutritional, you know. I don't know who you're trying to fool here, me or yourself?"

"Miles, I'm _fine_ , really," Waylon sounded exasperated but he couldn't stop a lopsided smile from creeping onto his face, knowing with all of his friends witty sarcasm and snarky remarks, this was how the man showed that he cared, "For a lone wolf, I didn't take you for the worrying type, Upshur," He taunted jovially, nudging the journalist in the shoulder, "I'm flattered you care so much,"

" _Pfft._ Don't get the wrong idea here, I'm not a nice person, and I'm sure as hell not a caring one, but if my number one source of joke fodder and prime entertainment suddenly killed over and died on me because of his own pathetic inability to feed himself, it would really just be a burden for _me._ So stop being so damn inconsiderate and eat a proper fucking meal once in a while, will you?"

Waylon lifted a hand to his chin, making a thoughtful noise.

"Well, since you asked so nicely, I guess I'll just have to take your request into consideration," The software engineer beamed at his friend, trying not to appear too outwardly touched by Miles' subtle way of showing his concern.

"Stop smiling like that, you're grossing me out," He ordered, irked when Waylon's grin light up so brightly it was practically blinding.

The blond's smile dropped immediately when he was met with a face full of smoke, and he coughed harshly, punching Miles hard in the arm while the brunet snickered wickedly at his distress.

"Cynical— _cough cough_ —asshole,"

"Socially inept nerd,"

This was the epitome of their friendship, meeting up in the evenings or nights on the days when their schedules met up, sitting on the same bench they always sat on in the park not far from Waylon's apartment complex, their little "dates" consisting of nothing but Miles' indifference and consistent smoking, and Waylon's exhaustion and overworked condition. They both had little to offer in the form of pleasant company, but there was always this unspoken agreement amidst the pair that there was never any pressure for conversation if they weren't in the mood for it, and a comfortable, familiar silence would often settle between them. The men were total opposites of one another, but nothing about their relationship was ever artificial or forced, and Waylon wondered if Miles knew just how grateful he was for these rare peaceful moments in his life in which nothing was expected of him besides being himself.

Waylon leaned his head back and closed his weary eyes, wanting to fall asleep right then and there despite being outside (something he had done on more than one occasion, with Miles having to either flick his forehead, slap his cheeks, or in the more rare cases, kick him off the bench to awaken him) but when he felt a sharp tug on his ear, he leisurely opened a bleary eye, "What?"

"How's work going?" Miles asked, breaking the tranquil silence with a rhetorical question.

Waylon groaned, "How does it look like it's going?"

"Considering that pitiful excuse of a beard you've got going on and that the bags under your eyes are large enough to hold a family of four in their minivan plus the family dog, I'd say it's going pretty swell," Miles commented so cheerfully it was bordering on sardonic, pretending to be oblivious to his bench mate's grumpiness.

_Stupid journalists and their stupid observational skills._

Waylon pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation, "Where do you come with up this shit?"

"I'm a dedicated journalist," Miles stated matter of factly, lifting up the camera that hung around his neck as proof of his statement, "It's what I do best,"

The blond pursed his lips together, looking down at the fallen dead leaves scattered around at his feet, crunching a few of them under his shoe.

"Work is going alright, but..." Waylon trailed off, remembering the heaps of strict NDA's he had to sign months ago, unsure if he was allowed to reveal any information to someone who was not inside the company, despite how minor in detail it was.

"But...?" Miles questioned, dark eyes inquisitive.

_Ah, well, screw it. It's not like he's asking for the sequence of codes to get into the security mainframe or the access passwords to clearance level three data files or something like that. It should be fine._

"I don't know if it's that the company was impressed with the marks I had in college or if they're just picking on me because I'm the new guy, but I feel like they're testing me, you know, to see how much I can handle on my own. The workload they give me is beyond demanding, it's downright _exhausting,_ "

Waylon rubbed his temples together with both of his hands, stressed, and pained at the thought of going back to work again, "I haven't made any critical mistakes yet, but I'm turning in my first big project tomorrow morning, so hopefully I don't screw it all up. I can't afford to mess up, not again. I can't lose this job,"

"Well," Miles chimed in, adding his own two cents, "You do look like absolute _shit_ , so that tells me that you're putting necessities like basic hygiene, eating, and wearing clean clothes everyday on the back burner, all in the name of this job of yours. If that doesn't show dedication, I don't know what does. Anyone with eyes can clearly see that you're working your ass off, so try and have a little more confidence,"

Waylon didn't even have the energy to get annoyed anymore, "I can't tell if you're insulting me or trying to give me a pep talk. Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Miles shrugged, "Who knows? All I know is that it would make _me_ feel better if you shaved that hairy ass peach fuzz of a caterpillar growing on your face so that I can actually look at your ugly mug without my mind being bombarded with facial hair puns that I'm genuinely impressed I've refrained from speaking out loud,"

He moaned and lowered his head in between his knees, covering his face with his hands, "Why am I friends with you?"

Miles grinned, ignoring the comment, "Other than the sleepless nights and the overwhelming amount of work on your plate, would you say you've enjoyed working there so far? How's the company been treating you?" He inquired, intensive, and like a switch being flipped on, Miles entered into journalism mode. It seemed like it was an unconscious reflex for the man whenever he was questioning anyone about anything, most likely a product born from years of experience in his line of work.

Waylon was far beyond used to this investigative behavior, but it made him wonder why his friend always seemed to be so interested in anything related to his work, asking him questions about how he was fairing in the office, how far along his projects were coming, how he was being treated by his fellow staff, superiors, and executives, but in the end, the software engineer just chalked it up to Miles' analytical nature.

"The company is treating me...okay, but I'm still a newbie, so most of my coworkers give me shit for that and my superiors basically make me run around the office like a little errand boy, doing things like getting them coffee, or making copies of something, just menial tasks they're too lazy do themselves. My number one priority, though, is maintaing the company mainframe, fixing bugs when they pop up in the system, and occasionally creating new programs,"

"It seems like you're doing exactly what you're cut out for then, huh?" Miles commented casually, "Waylon Park, the computer genius,"

Waylon lifted a leg up on the bench and balanced his elbow on top of his knee, resting his cheek against his hand, "I might not be a genius, but if there's one thing in this world I know I'm good at, it's dealing with computers. Despite the stress level of my work, I can't argue with the paycheck that comes in the mail every two weeks. And really Miles, you have no idea how badly I needed this job. It came to me when I had no other options, when I was at rock bottom. It was like a miracle, getting an offer for a well paying job that I didn't even apply for, and actually, _they_ were the ones that contacted _me_ first, can you believe that?"

"Almost sounds too good to be true," The brunet stated blankly, tapping the excess ash off of his cigarette.

"I know, that's exactly what I said. How I was lucky enough to get a contract with a company as _great_ as Murkoff, I'll never know,"

"Great, huh?" Miles muttered under his breath, tone sour.

The journalist peered at the expanse of shedding trees surrounding the park, watching as the orange, yellow, and auburn colored leaves fell quietly to the ground and were carried away with the brisk autumn wind, the serenity of the scene a severe contrast against the sharp, hardened glint in his eyes as he observed the peaceful environment around them, body rigid and tense.

"Waylon,"

The blond nodded his chin to show he was listening, "Hm?"

"Do you know anything about the company you're working for? Anything at all about Murkoff?"

Waylon furrowed his brows and looked at his friend, face puzzled.

_What a strange question to ask._

"Of course I do, I've been working there for almost six months now,"

"Oh? Then tell me?"

"Uh," Waylon began, "Well they're the worlds leading supplier of biometric security, I know that. Murkoff has thousands of charity events across the country they're sponsoring, they're doing exceedingly well in the stock market at the moment and have just recently been listed in Forbes Magazine as the eighth most profitable company in the United States, so that's an amazing accomplishment. I mean, yeah, the company has extremely high security, just entering and exiting the building takes me at least ten minutes each time, going through the protocols and all that, but I guess those are the things you have to deal with when you work for a company that's as financially and corporately guarded as Murkoff. Although, if anything, that just makes the company all the more foolproof,"

Miles rose off the bench, stiffly rising to his feet. He stalked away and tossed his depleted cigarette to the ground, roughly grinding it under his boot.

He turned his head in the blond's direction and Waylon saw emotions on Miles' face that he had never seen there before. His features held harsh malice, repressed violence, and most shockingly, a twisted, bitter anger.

"Nothing is foolproof, Waylon. _Nothing_ ,"

Miles regarded him coldly, "With your company doing so well, you're in a real great position now, aren't you? I mean the higher ups order you to do something and you do it without hesitation, like the good little worker sheep that you are, following the rest of the flock, awaiting orders from your shepard. When Murkoff says "jump!", you ask them "how high?", right, Park?" Miles wasn't yelling at him, he wasn't raising his voice above a normal speaking volume, but he had this frightening animosity in his voice that was so loud and fierce, it came out at an intensity that was _deathly_ calm.

It was clear, without a doubt. Miles was pissed the fuck off.

Waylon stared at the man in front of him, speechless, his eyes widening at his friend's insulting words, dazed as to how the situation had escalated up to this point.

Miles distanced himself further, settling up against a tall tree, and for the first time in a long while, an awkward silence fell between the pair.

Waylon fidgeted with his thumbs, uncertain of himself and how he should reply, for fear that if he opened his mouth and said the wrong thing, it would only make the situation worse. After a few moments of deliberating his options, he finally spoke up, "You know, if you're still hungry, we can head up to my place and I can cook you something or—"

"No," Miles cut him off, not allowing the other man finish the rest of his sentence. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, as though he was trying to calm himself.

"I've tasted enough of your terrible cooking to last me a lifetime, I think I'll be better off making something at home," An attempt at an insult, though it was lacking in its usual level of ridicule, which was very out of character for Miles, so the remark made Waylon uneasy.

He didn't get a chance to say anything more before Miles turned his back and began walking away, sluggishly waving over his shoulder, a half assed attempt at saying goodbye, but the brunet remained quiet as he departed, not looking back at Waylon even once as he strode through the park, disappearing into the night.

Waylon bit the inside of his cheek, bothered, as his gaze followed the trail of darkness where Miles had disappeared into.

"What?" He murmured to himself, confused. The blond clutched his pack tightly, eyeing the Murkoff corporate label plastered on the face of his laptop as the piece of technology peeked out of the opening of the bag, forced outward from his distressed grip.

"What was that about?"

**Author's Note:**

> I hate the word moist.


End file.
